


a white wolf

by ayuminb



Series: Stark Sisters Week [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (don't ask why), (srsly don't ask why - we already know), Arya is Uncomfortable but Supportive, Gen, Jon Kneels for Sansa, Mentions of Gendry/Arya, Mentions of Jon/Sansa, Oblique Reference to Cousin Incest, Oblique Reference to Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Stark Sisters Bonding, Starks Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12458214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Except, not anymore, no. Jon had abdicated as soon as he was well enough to attend court after the Great War. Had passed the crown to the one who ruled in his stead while he fought for their lives, the one who kept their people warm and fed and hopeful.As soon as he’d been able, Jon had knelt and laid his sword at Sansa’s feet, claimed her his Queen.





	a white wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Stark Sisters Week](https://starksistersweek.tumblr.com/). Day Oct 16th - Post-Series. I have another oneshot to post today. (And another I've not finished.)

The hardships she’s had to endure make it difficult for Arya to sleep in, her dreams offering little to no comfort. Knows it is the same for all of them, her family – for Bran and Sansa and Jon. Knows it to be truer _now_ , after the Great War, after the horrors the Night King brought over once he felled The Wall.

 

Nothing short of illness would make them linger in bed now. Not when there’s still so much to do—to _heal_.

 

So imagine her surprise when, come dawn, one of the maids comes by her chambers to tell her Bran has requested they break their fast in his chambers—their habit is go to Sansa’s, she’s the only one with a proper solar.

 

It’s not nearly as surprising as finding Bran on his own once she arrives, but before she can inquire about their sister’s whereabouts, Bran beckons her to close the door and sit with him.

 

“I need to tell you something,” he begins, “but first, I need you to promise not to act in haste.”

 

“That’s not a good way to make me promise, Bran, did something happen? Did Jon… encounter difficulties on his journey South?”

 

She feels the panic creep in—she’d told him not to go back there again. _Send an envoy_ ; she’d wanted to scream once the plans were made – at him and at Sansa. _Send an envoy, you’re the goddamned King!_

 

Except, not anymore, _no_. Jon had abdicated as soon as he was well enough to attend court after the Great War. Had passed the crown to the one who ruled in his stead while he fought for their lives, the one who kept their people warm and fed and hopeful.

 

As soon as he’d been able, Jon had knelt and laid his sword at Sansa’s feet, claimed her his Queen.

 

Bran shakes his head, arches an eyebrow. “Will you promise?”

 

Her little brother likes his theatrics too much now.

 

She huffs, crosses her arms. “Fine, I promise.”

 

And then she has to force herself to remain sitting as the words begin falling from his lips.

 

*****

 

Oh, but she makes a pitiful sight to behold, hunched over her chamber pot as she is. Arya is not deterred, walking closer, then drops to her knees and holds her sister’s hair back as she keeps retching.

 

“So it is true.”

 

Sansa gasps, shudders, but manages to stop herself from vomiting again; ever the Lady, even now, she reaches for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. “What is?”

 

“You’re with child.”

 

The way her blue eyes snap up to meet hers, the _shock_ , the disbelief on her face, the way she pales – Arya feels her own surprise slip through her calm exterior.

 

“Seven _Hells_ , Sansa,” she hasten to grab her sister’s shoulders when she sees her sway, “you didn’t know?”

 

“I—” she shakes her head, struggles to stand up even with her help; they walk towards the bed, “—the thought did cross my mind, but… I dismissed it.”

 

It is none of her business, to ask; Arya is plenty familiar with the _process_ of conceiving a child. Were it not for the moon tea she’d procured, she and Gendry might have created a dozen babes already. But it is that very reason, it is because she _has_ asked—despite the awkwardness, despite her conflicted thoughts about it still—she’s asked and she knows for sure Sansa has not been drinking it like she has.

 

So she says, “why?”

 

Her sister smiles at her, strained and sad. “After Jon and I had retaken Winterfell, one of the cooks came to me – to apologize, for not being able to be of more help.”

 

A pause; Sansa lets out a bitter laugh.

 

“ _More_ help. I remember thinking – what help? No one _helped_ me; I spent several moons—no one helped me, until Theon. Even Theon only helped me after a _long_ time,” she gasps, her hands fly to her mouth and Arya jerks alarmed, suddenly thinking maybe they should’ve brought the chamber pot with them; nothing happens. “But then the cook looked down, at my belly and I _understood_.”

 

So does Arya. “They gave you moon tea.”

 

Sansa nods, takes a deep breath and presses her hands to her belly. “They managed to sneak it into my food, so I wouldn’t…”

 

“I understand.”

 

They lapse into silence for a while, enough that Sansa’s handmaids come for what seems the second time this morning – they simply curtsy and go to clean the chamber pot. Briefly, Arya wonders why there are no rumors about this already—Sansa has been complaining about her queasy stomach for weeks now.

 

“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t think of this once your moonblood stopped coming.”

 

“I thought it was the stress,” Sansa sighs, and shuffles on the bed until her back is pressed against the headboard; her hands stay over her belly. “Besides, after finding out about that, I had Maester Wolkman check me and he said, considering the amount of moon tea I consumed, for such a long time… He said it’d be _unlikely_ … at least for a couple of years at the very least.”

 

Arya groans, glares half-heartedly at her sister. “Sansa, it’s _already_ been a couple of years since then. How could you still dismiss it?”

 

A shrug is her answer.

 

“How far along…?”

 

“Three moons, at least, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

There’s a gentle smile—genuine and carefree—tugging at the corner of Sansa’s lips, ever-growing, as she rubs small circles over her still flat stomach. It takes her a moment, then she remembers – Arya blinks, feels her own smile blooming; _this_ , a babe of her own, this is something Sansa has always wanted.

 

Something she thought she’d never have.

 

She scoots over, closer to Sansa, until they’re side by side and her hands can join those of her sister. “You think it’ll start showing soon? I remember little of when Mother carried Rickon,” she smirks. “I do remember her belly getting big overnight.”

 

Sansa scoffs. “It was not overnight, but it did seem like it.”

 

She hates to break the comfortable silence than ensues, but Arya knows it to be necessary.

 

“How will you announce it?” she asks; because as far as the smallfolk, and their bannermen, know, their Queen has declined all suitors that come a-knockin’. “What will we tell our bannermen? Everyone has been assuming that _I_ would give Winterfell its Heirs.”

 

Something she hates to think about, _hates_ knowing their subjects try to put such pressure over her shoulders. Hates it even more that they would just assume—even if Sansa has broached the issue of Heirs with her once or twice in the past year—that her sister would never _want_ to conceive.

 

“We shall tell them,” her sister smirks, “that this babe was fathered by a _wolf_.”

 

 _A white wolf_ , she wants to clarify, but doesn’t. Instead, Arya snorts; barks a laugh at the indignant look Sansa sends her way – and then they are both laughing, merry and free. A first; they’ve had so very little reason to laugh as of late, still.

 

“A wolf stole into your chambers and took your innocence?”

 

“Yes, exactly.”

 

They grin and scoot closer to each other and Arya resists the urge to giggle—she does _not_ giggle—and Sansa lets go. And everything is good, for now. She drops her head on her sister’s shoulder, grabbing her hand in hers.

 

“You need to have Maester Wolkman check you both.”

 

“I know.”

 

“The babe will be a bastard…”

 

“I am the Queen in the North,” her tone brooks no argument; pity on the fool who tries to defy their Queen, “I will bear no bastards. The babe will be a Stark.”

 

“You should send a raven to Jon,” the hand cradled in hers spasms, “he should be reaching Riverrun within the next few days, if you send it now, it might reach him in time.”

 

“I cannot risk—”

 

“Just ask him to come back; we can make excuses to Samwell Tarly later.”

 

Sansa sighs. “Arya, there’s no need for Jon to postpone this journey now.”

 

“Let us not pretend,” she says, softly, hands squeezing and eyes locked straight ahead – it is a difficult thing, to broach _this_ particular matter, to her more so than her sister. “Sansa, let us not _pretend_ this babe is not Jon’s.”

 

There is no use pretending; Arya might still have difficulties getting used to these new dynamics. She might not be comfortable with Jon’s and Sansa’s new relationship – is immensely grateful they keep it to themselves, behind very tightly closed door. Not only for her benefit, but for their realm. Because their bannermen and the smallfolk might have accepted the fact that Jon’s Stark blood comes from Ned Stark’s beloved sister; they’ve yet to even _acknowledge_ his Targaryen heritage—partly because Jon _himself_ rejects it, mostly because it is convenient.

 

This, however, this outcome – this _babe_ , it will change everything. Will the people accept it? Do they still see the remaining Starks in Winterfell as four _siblings_? Or do they see Ned Stark’s trueborn children and Lyanna Stark’s son?

 

_Cousins?_

 

Arya knows she struggles to accept their relationship, carefully guarded as it is, because she _looks_ at Jon and sees her most beloved brother, looks at _Sansa_ and sees her beloved sister—and can’t, simply _can’t_ , separate the two from the respective roles she’s associated with them. Brother. Sister. It’s all still very much rooted in her mind.

 

It’s hard; oh, she’s trying – but it’s so very _hard_.

 

“There’s still no need—”

 

“There’s _every_ need,” she huffs, moves away to pierce Sansa with a hard glare. “How do you think he’ll react, once he comes home and finds you with a babe cradled in your arms?”

 

Her sister frowns.

 

“How do you think he’ll feel, once he finds out he put a babe in you and you kept it from him? That he’s missed precious time?”

 

“We’ve never spoken—a babe was never part of any plan or conversation or…” blue eyes dart across the room, conflicted as they search for an answer that will not come, not like that anyway. “It’s been over a _year_ , Arya, of course we thought I no longer could—”

 

“Send for him, Sansa.”

 

A tired sighs is all it takes, and the Queen in the North seems to crumble in on herself. “…and if something happens and I lose the babe? It’s still too soon to tell if I’ll carry to term. He’ll be crushed and I—”

 

“Sansa… nothing will happen to your babe, I promise you,” she disentangles their hands to pull her sister into a one-armed embrace. “But Jon… do you not want him here?”

 

“Of course I do,” for all her reticence about sending the damned raven, Sansa looks truly offended at that.

 

“Good, then send a raven – tell him to come back, don’t explain why, just tell him to hurry back,” Arya grimaces a little, but manages to pull a smile nonetheless. “ _Believe_ me when I say, he won’t think it twice.”

 

Sansa smiles, presses a kiss to her brow, and embraces her tightly back. “Thank you, little sister. I know this is hard for you, _considering_ —so thank you.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've no beta, so if you see any mistakes. Let me know, please :)


End file.
